


Of Life, Interrupted

by Darkrivertempest



Series: Dramione Duet Stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Psychological Drama, Read Author's Note, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irony and bitterness make strange bedfellows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Life, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarletladyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletladyy/gifts).



> Written for Scarletladyy for Dramione_duet on LJ. Many thanks to Delphipsmith and Unseen1969 for the beta, also Toblass for the cleanup. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Note!:** I chose not to list certain tags because I felt it would ruin a bit of the mystery that is a part of this piece. That being said, I don't feel any of the material is enough to trigger a backlash, but I could be wrong. Just know that this is a dark piece, but with rays of hope scattered throughout.

Hermione Granger told herself that what she was about to do was humane, that it was a kindness visited upon a person who was brought up to hate her and those like her. 

_“Draco Malfoy is the last remaining Death Eater. Once he’s Kissed, the Dementors will be a thing of the past.”_

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s words to her were empty, amounting to nothing more than political rhetoric for the upcoming election. It didn’t matter that she disagreed with the sentence. When she had argued against it, against destroying the lineage of a wizarding family—no matter whose family it was—Kingsley only smiled indulgently, knowing of her previous crusade for house-elf rights, and jokingly said, “If only Malfoy were a house-elf, you would be crusading for him.” 

The wizarding world was a fickle place; even Harry’s vehement protests that Draco should be allowed to live fell on deaf ears. The public wanted all remaining traces of that evil time eradicated, and that included the last person to bear the Mark, regardless of the fact that he was the only surviving Malfoy. 

She was certain that she would, at the very least, be terminated from her position with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for what she was about to do. Time in Azkaban was a high probability, as well. She argued with herself that her job was a horrid one, and that being made redundant from the Ministry would allow her to pursue other, more meaningful careers—ones that valued life, human or otherwise. And if a clever wizard like Sirius Black had survived twelve years in the Dementor-infested prison, she was fairly certain she could survive a couple years for this violation, especially since the prison would be free of the loathsome creatures. Maybe it would only be months. Or even days. And she could always hope for nothing worse than a stern lecture from the Wizengamot, though that was unlikely. She might even claim that Shacklebolt had given her the idea. 

Ron believed she was working on assignment for Kingsley himself. Harry was so busy trying to keep his head above water in the Auror program that he rarely spent enough time with either of them to be kept abreast of happenings in their lives. Just as well. He would be disappointed once he learned of her underhanded deed. On the other hand, she knew Harry would understand why she did it, if not the depth of her determination. He would be wrong about her motives, but the conclusion would still be the same. Her sometimes clueless best friend would assume she’d done it because she’d always had a soft heart where the lesser creatures were concerned. In a way he would be right, but Hermione knew the actual reasons were myriad and a bit darker than she’d like to admit.

In the darkest corner of her mind, she considered Draco _hers_ , a treasured possession to be revelled in, indulged in, savoured to the last. It was said that one could not possess what one did not understand. But she understood Draco Malfoy, down to his very bones. He was hers to deal with, her’s to bend, to break and then piece back together. He had always looked down on her, just as she had always looked down on him. They had each considered the other unworthy, wanting, lacking. They were bound together by threads, hundreds of tiny strands which had sewn them together throughout the years. It wasn’t because of some absurd notion of love; possessiveness wasn’t love. She wasn’t even sure it qualified as an emotion. She didn’t love him in the least, but oh, how she desired to own him. No one had the right to take him from her. That should’ve been her first warning that what she planned wasn’t going to result in anyone's betterment. They both hated each other a little too much for anything to be remotely tender. 

It wasn’t even about righting wrongs. Hermione knew the Ministry would continue to inflict its punishments on _undesirables_ , those who upset or endangered the status quo, once Malfoy was gone. One could argue that what she planned to do was about petty revenge or poetic justice. Complete possession, however, was proven only by giving, and with time passing quicker than a Seeker after a Snitch, she saw her mission as the ultimate gift. 

One flash of her credentials and she was past security, on her way to see prisoner AZ4841. No one questioned her presence—everyone knew that Malfoy was scheduled for the Kiss the next morning at ten, and MLE employees visiting an inmate before said event were the norm. Hermione had counted on this. She had also timed her visit very carefully, down to the last detail. Something like this could not be left to chance, and the potion churning inside her was an added layer of insurance that all would go as planned.

~~~

Draco was hallucinating, he was sure of it. After months of sitting in a dank, rough-hewn stone cell with Dementors hovering nearby, leaching all hope from his mind, it was enough to make the most logical of people believe they were speaking with Merlin himself.

Why else would Hermione Granger be standing in his cell, looking at him in an oddly pitying manner, unless she was a figment of his fevered imagination? Why else would she be bending down and cupping his face, her expression one of desperation, and speaking in low murmurs of things he knew they did not share, had never shared?

Her delicate fingers drifted low, past the open collar of his shapeless, lice-ridden prison garb, past his gaunt stomach, finally cupping his quiescent cock through the thin material of his trousers. The moment she increased the pressure, he came back to reality and shoved her hand away. If he was going to die, he didn’t want the taint of a Mudblood’s touch all over him to be the last thing he remembered. 

Apparently, she had prepared for this eventuality. She murmured a hasty _Petrificus Totalus_ and he felt himself falling, landing flat on his back on the floor. She then straddled his hips, leaning over him so they were nose-to-nose. Humiliation, fury and maybe just a touch of guilty lust all warred within him when her arse shifted over his groin.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully, Draco Malfoy,” she whispered, in a barely audible tone. “In twenty-four hours, for all intents and purposes, you’re going to cease to exist. No one can stop it from happening.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them slowly. “Harry has tried, but the Wizengamot refuses to listen to reason where the Dark Mark is concerned,” she went on, her voice on the verge of breaking. “Once you’re devoid of your soul, you’ll be moved to the Erinyes Ward deep in the bowels of St. Mungo’s, where what’s left of you will be perpetually cared for, never to be seen or heard from again. All the Malfoy assets will be liquidated and dispersed in reparation for the damage your family has caused, before and during the war.”

Fury filled him, its heat momentarily obliterating the icy chill of the stone floor. Damn the pious Ministry to the depths of the last of the Seven Hells. As if they had the right to sell off his heirlooms, plunder the vast monies gathered in the Malfoy name across the world, or extinguish a bloodline that went back two thousand years!

“It’s unconscionable, I know,” she agreed sombrely, as if she had heard his thoughts. “Even _I_ think what they’re doing is a violation of your basic civil and human rights.” 

The _Petrificus_ was beginning to loosen its hold. He could close his right eye now, so he did, and she took it as he intended: a sign that he was willing to listen to her, possibly even converse with her without the restraints. More fool she. When she released him, he bucked his hips and threw her off, swiftly rolling on top of her and pinning her to the ground, their positions reversed.

“Whatever crack-brained idea you have in that disgustingly frizzy head of yours, Mudblood, I don’t give a rat’s arse!” He didn’t, not really. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to that chamber and accept my sentence as a Malfoy and a pure-blood should: on my feet, my pride intact. But you? You’ll still have to live the rest of your life as filth.” He leaned down and inhaled deeply, her scent tickling his nose, and wished briefly that he’d taken the opportunity to teach her her place when she’d been imprisoned at the Manor. “I think I have the better end.”

Her lips slowly curled into a devious smile. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? The end. It’ll be the end of the Malfoy line; no more towheaded supremacists running about, mucking up people’s lives. Oh, how society will glorify that day.”

Draco sat back on his haunches, a knee on either side of her ribs, uncaring of the weight he placed upon her body. Nothing about this made sense. “Why does it matter to you? I’d think you couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

She arched her brow—mocking his curiosity, he was sure. “I thought you didn’t give a rat’s arse?”

He hated that holier-than-thou look on her face. It was the same look she’d always had when she waved her bloody hand in the air in Potions class. Bending low he wrapped his fists in her hair, pulling tight, knowing it must hurt her, yet she didn’t even whimper. “What do you want?” he whispered harshly against her cheek. “Why are you here?” 

“I’ve found a possible way out of your… predicament, but I need your help.”

He started to snigger, which quickly turned into harsh laughter. “You want help? From me?” he said incredulously. Letting go of her hair, he abruptly stood and moved away from her. “Unless it has escaped your notice, I’m about to be fucking executed! How the hell do you expect me to help you? Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

She sat up and dusted herself off. “In general terms, everything.”

“You’re completely mad, Granger. I’ve lost interest. Leave.” He moved towards the cell door, but her tight grip on his wrist stayed him. 

“At least listen to my proposal,” she begged, oh so prettily. Too prettily, he thought, but he couldn’t suppress a flash of satisfaction at the sight of a Mudblood begging for favours. Especially this one.

“You have fifteen minutes before I summon the guards,” he warned, though he knew it was an empty threat. He was scum to them; they didn’t care in what condition he met the Dementors, as long as he did. “Less if I feel like it.”

“That’s all I’ll need.”

~~~

Draco was immobilized, magically bound to a wooden chair that stood in the centre of an empty space in front of a crowd of twenty or so wizards and witches. The majority of them were members of the Wizengamot. He saw Harry Potter in the second row next to Hermione, both of them looking appropriately solemn, Granger a tad more so. Kingsley Shacklebolt was front and centre, garbed in ostentatious purple robes, looking as fatuously pious as ever. Towards the back of the crowd he spied his estranged blood-traitor aunt, Andromeda, who returned his stare, the scarce light in the room glinting off the tears on her cheeks. He supposed he should feel grateful that his last remaining relative—besides that half-human second cousin of his—was willing to show her face at this event. But he wasn’t. He guessed that she would have preferred a death sentence, though she’d no doubt settle for the intended outcome: Draco rendered incapable of future action, thus insuring that her grandson would have a long and happy life. He snorted in disgust at the farce, and wondered what the hell they were waiting for. More time to gloat, perhaps.

“Draco Malfoy, for crimes committed against the wizarding world, Muggle-borns, and Muggles; for directly and indirectly supporting the wizard, Tom Riddle—otherwise known as Voldemort—and his regime, and committing heinous acts in said wizard’s name; for facilitating access to Hogwarts for known Death Eaters which resulted in much harm, including the death of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, you have been sentenced to receive the Dementor’s Kiss, by which you will lose your soul.” Shacklebolt’s deep voice seemed to echo in the chamber. “Do you have any last words?”

He had none. There were more charges, of course, less grandiose ones that didn’t merit mentioning since their penalties were minor and therefore now irrelevant. He had nothing to say to the hypocritical sycophants seated in front of him. Except one. Looking at Hermione, he held her gaze. “Did it work?” he asked aloud. 

A murmur of puzzlement rustled through the crowd as heads turned to glance at Hermione and then back to him. She gave Draco the same slow smile she had bestowed upon him the day before and nodded once, then sniffed and notched up her chin at the others’ scrutiny, as proud as any Malfoy. Perhaps that was all he could hope for—that even though she was a Mudblood, she was, at least, a proud Mudblood. He didn’t love her, never would. But sometimes, one had to compromise to get the things one wanted, even if it meant colluding with a witch one loved to hate. It would have to do; there was no more time. 

“Anything else?” Shacklebolt prompted.

Draco pinned his aunt with a steely glare, not wanting her to be there to witness what might be his weakest moment. “ _Toujours pur_ ,” he bit out, and delighted in the anguish that filled her expression. She turned and hastily left the chamber. It was the height of irony that the proud motto of centuries had decayed to nothing more than a slur, but he didn’t want the woman to glimpse the fear he was sure he would show despite himself. 

“Enough. Release the Dementor!” Shacklebolt commanded and everyone in the room took several steps back, their wands drawn.

Panic clawed its way up Draco’s throat as a silent grey wraith floated into the room. The temperature dropped immediately, sucking heat from his body and he began to shiver. He had a momentary insane urge to look at Granger, to see if she was safe, if she was protected. Catching a glimpse, he saw Potter hovering over her in a fiercely protective stance. His attention was drawn back to the drifting mass of horror that was now reaching out its skeletal hands towards his neck. The fingers burned with cold, freezing his head so that it wouldn’t move, rendering him incapable of thrashing. As it lowered its head towards his face, its mouth gaping open in an obscene parody of a kiss, he summoned memories of the night before, in hopes of staving off the impending oblivion...

~~~

_He dipped his hand down into the sparse curls between her legs, found her clit, and circled it slowly with his index finger as she twisted with pleasure. “You’re sure this will work?”_

_He gave a tap to her nub and she arched her back, moaning. “Yes,” she whimpered._

_He said no more, instead lifting her hips. He might hate the woman beneath him, but at least she could testify that he had been considerate in this instance. Lining up with her sex, he thrust home into her waiting body. She inhaled sharply at the intrusion, digging her nails into the dirty floor._

_“I will have my own private wing,” he ground out as he angled his hips and drove his cock deep inside. “And only you will have access to my chambers.”_

_“What of—”_

_Draco covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her question. Delivering a particularly brutal thrust, he gave her a contemptuous look before bending low to whisper in her ear, “No one but you. Because you’re mine. I may be yours here and now, but you’ll be mine for the rest of your days. My price, or this goes no further.”_

_The witch had the nerve to lick his palm. He removed his hand and wrapped his fingers around her throat. “Don’t ever do that again. I may have to fuck you for this to work, but don’t think we’re lovers. This is a business transaction, and a shoddy one at that.” He angled his hips to penetrate deeper._

_She laughed and tugged on his hair. “A deal you agreed to. And it’s not shoddy; I covered all the caveats. Everything will be as you wish it, Draco.”_

_He couldn’t help his eyes from closing at the tone in her voice when she said his name, at the hint of surrender and obedience, as if she truly did care about him. But he quashed the feeling as soon as it reared its ugly head. He withdrew and wrenched her arms over her head. “Keep them there.” Spreading her quivering thighs, he entered her once more and set up a punishing rhythm. “You should be glad I’m agreeing to this, Mudblood,” he growled, staring at her with unabashed loathing. “I only wish I could be there to see the look on Shacklebolt’s face when you present him with the cold hard truth.”_

_“Even though I’m nothing more than filth to you, trash that should know my place?”_

_He buried his face in the crux of her neck, clutching her shoulders, and drove his rigid shaft deeper. “You are filthy,” he murmured, “but you’re_ my _filth.”_

_Their movements became frantic, the slap of their bodies frenzied. “Draco,” she panted, breathless from his fierce attentions._

_“Fuck,” he said with a snarl, and emptied himself into her._

_They lay gasping for several moments, then Draco pulled out. Without a word, he stood and tied his drawstring trousers around his thin waist. Hermione seemed a little unsteady as she attempted to stand, finally clutching his arm to keep from falling. His first instinct was to shrug her off, but instead, he held onto to her until she was able to remain upright. She murmured her thanks and let go of him to straighten her own clothing._

_She cleared her throat and produced a packet of parchments and a Blood Quill. “Sign these. Your blood will be the final bonding agent.”_

_He said nothing as he read over the conditions that had been set forth. He vaguely heard the guard pass back and forth on patrol several times before he was finished. One of them had started to enter the cell to see why the visit from the Ministry was taking so long, but Granger had scowled so fiercely he hadn’t dared._

_The terms satisfied him as written; as usual, Granger had done her homework. With a flourish, and a sense of anticipation he had not felt in years, he signed his name on the document and handed it back to her. “Remember: the east wing, overlooking the gardens.”_

_She bit her lip and nodded, her face growing suddenly pensive. Before he had a chance to snap at her for her impertinence, she pulled him down for a torrid, but brief, kiss. He should have been disgusted, should have slapped her away as he had done earlier when she had tried to grope him. But he knew this was the last gentle thing he would experience in his life, and he decided to enjoy it, even if it was given to him by a Mudblood._

_Releasing him, she moved quickly to the door, looked over her shoulder once, and was gone._

~~~

Only now, as the Dementor clamped its fetid mouth over his, did Draco wish that the kiss he had shared with Granger had lasted a moment or two longer than it did. It didn’t matter though.

In the end, everything disappeared into the void.

~~~

_Four years later_

“Minister Granger? I need you to sign this document.”

Hermione read over the proposal and smiled to herself, autographing the parchment with such flourish that even Malfoy would have been impressed. She handed it back to her assistant, saying that she was going home for the evening and that she wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was Harry or Ron with news of their wives' impending deliveries. 

The moment she walked into Malfoy Manor, she was greeted by a squealing child, flinging himself into her arms.

“Mum! I’m so glad you’re home!” He hugged her close, burying his head against her shoulder.

She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Aries, where is Luna?”

Luna came strolling in through the French doors, as if on cue. “He knew you were coming home soon, so we decided to play leap frog outside on the grounds while we waited.” She leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Never play leap frog with a unicorn.”

“Ouch!” Aries said with a giggle. 

“That’s right,” Hermione said and set her son down to hug Luna before she left. When they were alone, Aries tugged on his mother’s robe. 

“I want to see Papa.”

Hermione sighed heavily. It was the same every day since she had told Aries of his father, the man he was, the man she had hoped he would have become given enough time. She had shown him pictures of Draco Malfoy, explaining that Aries had his father’s eyes, his hair colouring, even a bit of that Malfoy sneer when he threw a tantrum. She had made a story out of it: how, long ago, his father had been hurt by a man that had no mercy, a man who had ruined his own career by trying to take away the things that rightfully belonged to Aries, as a Malfoy; how, because his father and mother had planned ahead, everything they now had was because of Draco’s assurances, written in his own blood. Aries had cried himself to sleep that night, and thus began his asking every day to see his father. Sometimes he forgot after he asked, or was sufficiently distracted by something Hermione said or did. Such was the way of a three-year-old mind. But every night, as she tucked him into bed, she warned him that it was always best to show compassion to those whose situation merited it, for one day, it might be he who was in need of theirs. 

Yes, she had endured many scandals. But as she had done in school, so had she done in life: plan everything out that could be planned. In the end, everything in Draco’s updated Will had been flawlessly executed, even down to the month when the child should be born—April. He had also stipulated that Hermione was the only one to enter his rooms, a contentious codicil if there ever was one. Their poor child had been forbidden to step one toe near the wing where Draco stayed, and it angered her to no end that the boy could only rely on the wizarding photographs available or the portraits in the long gallery on the third floor to see what his father looked like. Pictures could never reveal the true depths of Draco, and she feared one day, the child would take it upon himself to wander where he should not. The child deserved to know his father.

She bent low, placing her eyes level with her son’s, and caressed his cheek. “Love, I know you don’t understand, but your father doesn’t want you to see him as he is now. He wants you to remember him as he used to be, like in the pictures.”

Aries knew that she visited Draco every evening. He lay in the east wing of the manor instead of the Erinyes Ward at St. Mungo’s—a stipulation of the Will he had signed—staring sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling in his room. She had done everything possible to care for him, even placing a Moisture Charm on his eyes to activate twice an hour, since she was the only person permitted to enter. At night, she would gently brush his eyes shut, attend to his nutritional needs and other necessary details, and sit next to his still body, listening to him slowly breathe—another charm, that kept oxygen flowing through his system. She sometimes even contemplated lying next to him, as if they were a normal couple, but each time dismissed the notion as a bit morbid. She often remembered his words: _I may be yours here and now, but you’ll be mine for the rest of your days._ How true that was.

A mischievous look entered Aries’ eyes. “You could leave the door open,” he suggested innocently. “Accidentally on purpose.”

She knew in that moment that if she didn’t acquiesce in some fashion, Aries would try to cross the wards protecting Draco’s chambers and might be badly hurt. Her decision made, she took the boy’s tiny hand in hers and led him to the east wing. He had never been this far before, and as they walked, he gazed all around in awe, with perhaps a bit of fear as well. They stopped before a set of ornately-carved wooden doors. 

“You must stay here, Aries. Sit down and do not go beyond this mark,” she drew a thin, gleaming red line with her wand, “or you’ll get a sting that will make you cry.”

He gave her an intense look. “Yes, Mummy.” 

She waited until he had seated himself obediently on the carpet, then opened the door and made her way through the antechamber to Draco’s bedroom. He was as she had left him that morning: pale, thin, still unbelievably handsome, still as motionless. Taking a deep breath, she cast a Hover Charm, raising Draco from the bed, and manoeuvred him slowly through the room and out of his chambers. The manipulative bastard had made sure no one but Hermione could go into his rooms, but nothing had ever been said about taking him out. 

Aries’ eyes widened as he watched his mother levitate his father to the floor in front of him. 

None of the spells or charms attached to Draco’s body were harmful, so when the boy hesitated Hermione said, “It’s all right, Aries. You may hold his hand.” Hermione knew from painful experience that seeing pictures of a lost parent was nothing compared to actually being able to touch them first-hand.

Carefully, as if about to handle something delicate that would break, Aries picked up his father’s broad hand in both his small ones and placed it in his lap, smiling as if he had been given the most precious gift in the world. 

Hermione’s eyes prickled with tears at the sight of his joy. She had often told herself that it wasn’t love she felt for Draco. At most, it was mild annoyance or dislike. She loved Aries, so she knew the difference. No, it wasn’t love. 

But Draco was hers, and she was his. And Aries was theirs.


End file.
